


Home Alone

by Bone Δaddy (NadaCitizen)



Series: Involving Sans [1]
Category: Undertale, Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Blue Magic stuff, Forgive Me, God this is weird, M/M, Male Solo, Masturbation, NSFW, Other, Smut, Solo, Undertail, i dont know, i guess??
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-25
Updated: 2015-10-25
Packaged: 2018-04-28 01:21:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5072467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NadaCitizen/pseuds/Bone%20%CE%94addy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Don't you hate it when your powers don't listen to you?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Home Alone

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, so... Very influenced by a particular piece of Submerged Castles' artwork, which can be found here: submergedcastles.tumblr.com/post/131733351403

It’s been a long day. 

The kind where your body aches and your feet trudge against the ground-- not because you *worked* particularly hard, but sometimes your bed just beckons you for no apparent reason. 

Which was fine by Sans.

If the skeleton memorized only one routine it was Undyne and Papyrus’ one-on-one training schedule, and today happens to promise a few extra hours of alone time because of it.

So with the last of the snowtracks behind him, Sans steps up to his front steps and lets a signaling flash of his eye do the rest; a swift, cyan wisp swings the door open and shuts it behind him. 

Home at last. 

Zero time goes to waste throwing himself on the sofa and letting his slippers follow. Sleepily, he wraps his arms behind his head, considering turning on the TV to what was guaranteed to be the sound of MTT flooding the room. He decided against it, instead summoning a ghostly set of hands to put the remote away for minimal nap distraction. 

They did. Upon returning, however, Sans opens an eye as the hands hover without purpose. He double-takes, then shuts his eyes to ignore the ghostly extensions, figuring there was no sense in rushing parts of himself when he took his sweet time for… mostly everything. Give ‘em time, he thought. They’ll leave.

Inch by inch they approach Sans, the aforementioned figuring that they were about to resume protocol and dispel themselves. One of the hands eventually draws close enough to snatch Sans’ wrists while the other floats nonchalantly above. Taken aback, Sans throws himself forward to sit up and understand what was happening, only to have the second hand’s fingertips push on his torso back to the couch. 

“H-Hey--…” His visage awakens, the small, electric-blue flame in his left eye glowing hotly. The lack of composure mobilizes a second set of ecto-hands from him, forcing an audible gasp as Sans loses track of them. 

Sweat dots at the sides of his head. Everyone has off-days with their powers, but this was unheard of.

The third hand met with the first, taking Sans’ opposite wrist and binding him to the cushions. Fear slithers up his spine. “What are you--...” 

For a moment he wonders if they meant to kill him. If maybe in some other timeline, he’d doomed himself over sins he couldn’t remember. He felt the fourth hand pinch and pull the edge of his basketball shorts a few inches, and realized with a luminescent blush that he was wrong. “W-w--”  
His vocabulary withers exponentially. “Wait--...” 

Sans had no idea how to stop, and could only think for half a second before the second hand quit being curious and latched onto his spine, curling its fingers around the discs in a death-grip. Immediately, his breath shortens and his back arches, but the fourth hand was having none of it; just as quickly, it opens its palm and pushes down on Sans’ pelvis to keep him flat on the couch. He curls his toes in response, parting his mouth.

“Hh…??!!!” What the hell. Sans’ eyes were saucers, wide and reflective of the entire scene around him. Flustered, he forced himself to look at the ceiling. A luminescent blush spread across his face. He couldn’t think. He didn’t know how long this would take. There was no way he could risk anybody walking in on him like this. Hell no.

He tries to push himself up, lowering his eyes with determination to gain control over *what should have been* himself, only to find a set of digits driving him back into place by slamming him directly between the neck and sternum. 

“Hh…” Oh god. 

The cyan on his face burns deeper. Slowly, Sans melts into the touches, figuring maybe --just maybe-- less emotion will disperse the extensions. 

He couldn’t have been more wrong.

He refuses to admit it—but thinking about their lack of predictability, the inability to know what they were going to do… Sans moans, guilty and overstimulated, trying to slow his breaths as beads of sweat drip down sides of his skull. In his vulnerability, Sans finds his shirt lifted and his ribs brushed against. Unused to the feelings, small noises escape his mouth. “ah…”

Without warning, one of the hands slips right through his ribcage and grabs his throat before he has time to object-- only to result in a drooling, lock-knee’d Sans. He’d never have the gall to ask anyone he knew to do something like this. Unthinkable. But now…

Sans tilts his head back, letting whatever happen. The hands holding his wrists break away to pull off his coat, and chills run through him; being so close to the window didn’t help. They returned, but not without first walking along his femur, gently sliding along his sensitive, exposed limbs. God—he turns his face in towards his shoulder, blushing heavily. 

He doesn’t want to say anything, but it becomes difficult to breathe. He attempts to lift one of his own hands to loosen its grip, only to find another glowing hand –he can’t keep track anymore—grabbing his own.

The cyan on his face spreads wider, reaching his clavicle just as he parts his mouth to moan softly; but he’s cut off, desperate and out of air as he stares at the hand in front of him. He hates it. What one can only identify as tears collect at the corner of his eyes, when suddenly, the grip is finally loosened and Sans inhales deeply.

Only for the same hand to take hold of the base of his spine, transforming the reviving breath into more of an overwhelmed yelp. He melts, grinning in arousal as his pupils roll back and he shakes from the neck down. 

Minus that particular piece of attention, Sans finds himself able to grasp his surroundings again.

“Mmmnnn…” Brisk air fills the living room, and as soon as he notices, the hands keep tugging his shorts until they pool at his kneecaps. Sans pauses, staring intently at them—he’d never thought for them to do that and felt suddenly nervous.

One of the hands gives a reassuring pat on the leg. Once free, both return and grab hold of the necks of his femurs, thumbs rubbing rough circles against the center of his pelvis. His eyelids lower as his flame dims, his body tightening. “H-hhh….”

They go faster, and after a few seconds Sans shuts his eyes and pants, reaching his own hands down in an attempt to slow them down. He creates a neon blue tongue for himself to bite down on. God…

He can’t. One goes so far as to slap his wrist away, before taking it upon itself and the third hand to grab all of his fingers and knuckles in a painful hold over his head. Sans mumbles incoherently, his threshold for caring reduced to nothing as the remaining thumbs and index fingers trace the outlines of his bones until he’s damn near ready to come.

With a few more moments, he lies there, shaking, clutching at the base of his ribs with his hands,…and then the door knocks and his eyes snap open. Every instance of the hands disappear, the room falling dead silent.

Oh, hell.

**Author's Note:**

> Will probably edit a bit, jsyk.


End file.
